S&J Drabbles from 221B
by slytherin-until-i-die
Summary: Collection of drabbles containing 250 words each, sometimes a few more, sometimes a few less. Johnlock. Some fluff, some angst, some mature themes. Every chapter is a stand-alone drabble, no continuations, nothing complicated.
1. Sherlock

**Hi everyone! I've decided that there simply aren't enough drabble collections for the Johnlock ship, so I'm taking the matter into my own hands by creating one. Every drabble I write here will contain 250 words or less, and the final word of each one will be that specific chapter's title. Every single one will have a one-word title beginning with either 'S' or 'J' (if you can guess the significance of those letters, you can have a cookie). I'll be accepting word prompts later on, if anyone is keen to give them. I hope to update this once every 2-3 days and even more often when I'm not busy.**

**Enjoy :)**

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_Sherlock_

Occasionally, John Watson takes a moment out of his day to imagine what his life would have been like had he never met his bizarre, impertinent, erratically-behaved flatmate, Sherlock Holmes – Sherlock, the man with the high-collared coat and the trademark deerstalker hat; the man with the impeccably high standards of personal hygiene that contrast peculiarly with his assortment of appalling habits; the man with the bright, sharp eyes that contain universes teeming with exploding supernovas and undulating galaxies, soaring asteroids and luminous, incandescent stars; the man who, under the ever-watchful and harshly-judgmental public eye, is nothing more than an obnoxious, impudent and impossibly cold stranger with an icy, impenetrable exterior and a personal temperament to match. However, to John, Sherlock is something much greater, something considerably more important.

If one was to ask a person of science, they would clearly state that a specific combination of factors, including correct levels of air, food and water, are what keep us able to function each day, what keep us alive. But then, ironically enough, John, a doctor himself, believes that there is a distinct difference between the terms, 'able to function' and 'alive'.

Before Sherlock, John was able to get out of bed each morning and see what the day would bring him... but that was it. He was cold, hollow, a shadow of himself, and he knew it, deep down in his heart of hearts. John was breathing, but not truly living. But that was before. Then he met Sherlock.


	2. John

_**J**__ohn_

If Sherlock Holmes is honest with himself, he never really expected to find a flatmate at all, let alone one that he would end up actually enjoying being in the company of, let alone one that would change him in a multitude of surprising ways for the better, let alone one that would be as brave, as charming or as wonderful as the good doctor, John Watson.

In some ways, Sherlock thinks of human beings as a race of extremely fascinating creatures. Every person is made up of a unique combination of deoxyribonucleic acid and genetic material, the common denominator uniting them all being a set of complex and beautifully vital internal organs. Human bodies are engineered to the utmost perfection, enabling them to function, move around and carry out the basic day-to-day activities that successful, fulfilling lives include. But Sherlock has always found that, despite the brilliance of so many conglomerate components working together in harmony, in such close proximity, and to such great effect, human beings tend to be incredibly, disappointingly dull - dull in their appearance, dull in their habits, dull in their ways.

So, naturally, upon meeting John, Sherlock was pleasantly bewildered by the doctor's apparent inability to bore him, no matter what mundane task he was partaking in. Sherlock had, over the years, grown used to talking to himself, to being alone, to having only himself for entertainment. But things have changed dramatically - for the better, in Sherlock's opinion. Now he has John.


	3. Smiled

_**S**__miled _

John clambered wearily up the stairs to 221-B, a sense of foreboding suddenly assailing him as his ears began to absorb the familiar sounds of a violin. He paused after six steps, taking a moment to listen to the sublime, mournful melody, his brain attempting to unravel the complex and previously unheard strings of notes being played upstairs. This was a brand new piece; John was certain. That meant Sherlock was composing his own music, something he only did when he needed mental stimulation. John sighed and headed into the flat.

He released the breath he had been holding when he caught sight of his flatmate, the source of the heartbreakingly beautiful music, staring wistfully out of the window as he played his instrument. Sherlock's feet were bare, and he wore his usual indoor ensemble of tweed pyjama bottoms and blue silk robe. He heard John's approach and spun to face him.

"John! Excellent, just the man I was after." Sherlock grinned condescendingly and bounced up and down on the balls of his feet. John tried his hardest to fake a smile.  
"I was... ah." Sherlock trailed off, staring awkwardly in the direction of John's shoes. "You've been on a date."

"Yes," John confirmed bluntly, perching on the arm of the sofa.

Sherlock's eyes widened. "Not good?"

"Let's just say I won't be phoning her back," John sighed, relaxing into the soft leather. "Now please carry on with... well, whatever you were playing earlier. It was lovely."

Sherlock smiled.


	4. Job

_**J**__ob_

Sherlock cleared his throat. "John?"

"Mhm?"

"John."

John glanced up from his newspaper for a moment but didn't respond. He was halfway through reading an article and didn't want to lose his train of thought. John seldom got the opportunity to relax anymore, to get up when he pleased, to enjoy his breakfast and read the paper, and on this rare occasion, he was not going to allow the impetuosity of Sherlock Holmes to interrupt his otherwise serene morning. John exhaled slowly, contentedly.

"How you seem to be finding that ridiculous drivel more interesting than the variety of things I could have to tell you is frankly beyond me," Sherlock declared, standing up from the kitchen table and padding brusquely over to the window. John raised his eyebrows and, unable to help himself, coughed a laugh in his best friend's direction. Sherlock flicked his head around and scowled, his eyes narrowed contemptuously. "Ugh," he scoffed, sinking down into the leather armchair and drawing his knees up under his chin.

John sighed and closed the newspaper. He turned to glare at Sherlock. "Go on then," he prompted. "What's up?"

"Nothing," Sherlock said, making a show of rising out of his seat and sweeping over to where John sat. "Nothing at all." He grabbed the newspaper and took back his original chair.

John gaped and cocked his head disbelievingly. "You drive me up the wall sometimes, you really do."

From behind the spread pages of the newspaper, Sherlock muttered, "That's my job."


	5. Starving

_**S**__tarving_

John worries about Sherlock a lot more than he makes obvious. In the heat of a serious case, when Sherlock goes through an indefinite hiatus in terms of carrying out regular, cardinal tasks - eating and sleeping included - John is forced to make a substantial effort to ensure that his best friend does not physically deprive himself beyond sensibility.

"Sherlock, you need a break," John told him on the evening of one of these occasions. It was early spring, and the clear and sharp but slowly fading sunlight danced through the window and across the face of his colleague, throwing his angular features and magnificent bone structure into stunning relief. John swallowed hard.

"Can't," Sherlock stated bluntly, his eyes closed.

"What?"

"I'm on the verge of working out who did it, John, can't you see?" demanded Sherlock, somewhat softly compared to his usual overwrought tone. He ran a hand through his curls and stared out of the window. John sighed, defeated, before lowering himself into an armchair.

"Actually..."

John looked up to see Sherlock craning his neck, standing on tiptoe, his eyes evidently fixed upon something - or someone - on the ground below. His eyes darted from left to right - they must be on the move.

"Yes John, I think we will go out," Sherlock decided quickly, dashing around and pulling on his shoes, the hems of his pyjama bottoms roughly getting tucked inside. John raised his eyebrows as Sherlock smiled conspiratorially out of the window. He shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "I'm starving."


	6. Jacket

_**J**__acket_

It had gone midnight when John and Sherlock finally escaped.

One could have sliced the atmosphere with a knife in New Scotland Yard; they had left a red-faced Detective Inspector Lestrade grumbling down the phone to his wife; Donovan and Anderson had been at each other's throats all evening - Sherlock had guessed that it had something to do with the shrill sergeant's new boyfriend, correctly if the woman's furious expression was anything to go by - and the case involving the murders of two twin sisters at the same time on opposite sides of London seemed to be going nowhere.

Since their arrival, Sherlock had paced the same stretch of office space enough times to wear tracks into the carpet, drank more polystyrene cups of coffee than John had cared to count and even resorted to laying face-down on the floor for several hours as if searching the individual cream-coloured fibres for inspiration.

"We're going home, Sherlock," John said when the evening had gone on long enough, putting his arm around his partner and leading him out of the office.

As they waited for a cab, John watched as Sherlock failed to suppress a shudder. It was early November and the biting cold was closing in on all sides. John realised what was different.

"I left my coat upstairs," he muttered, turning around.

"No, you don't," said John, throwing out an arm to stop him and shrugging out of his own jacket.


	7. Scared

**A/N: Thought it might be time I left you a note (that's what people do, isn't it? Leave a note? Sorry if I just sparked any Reichenbach feels, that was too perfect an opportunity to miss) – I don't want anybody to believe I think myself too good a writer to address my loyal readers every once in a while. So hello! Thank you to everyone that's been regularly checking and reviewing these stories, I'm very glad you like them. And on that note, here, have another.**

**Fluff. I don't even care.**

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_**S**__cared_

Sherlock had been acting even more peculiarly than usual all afternoon. From the moment John had stepped over the threshold into 221-B after his morning appointments at the surgery, his harebrained flatmate had gone from staring extremely intently at him one moment, enough to make the doctor feel dreadfully self-conscious, to pointedly avoiding his gaze the next, all without uttering a single sardonic word. Sherlock really wasn't himself, and John was determined to find out why. When he asked what the problem was, Sherlock turned his back on him.

"I don't… I don't know if I can tell you," was his response. John had never heard Sherlock struggle for words before. For some reason, he suddenly felt his heart thudding against his ribcage in a way he was certain it never had before.

He swallowed. "Go on, Sherlock," he prompted gently. "Please," he added after a moment.

That was all it took. Sherlock turned to John and suddenly his words tumbled out in an uncharacteristic, unpremeditated rush.

"John, it's you. I don't know if I'm stressed or overtired or something else that usually only affects normal people, but you're making me feel things I never have before and frankly I don't know what to do about it. I didn't know it was possible to care for a person as much as I suddenly do for you and this is a whole new experience for me. You make my head spin and I feel my pulse race when you come into a room." He came up for air. "John… I'm scared."

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**Review? It would make my day.**


	8. Jealousy

_**J**__ealousy  
_  
Sherlock scowled as he heard John exit the building. He had come into the living room ten minutes earlier reeking of aftershave, his shoes polished and his shirt crisply ironed, and announced that he was off to meet a woman he had met in the supermarket that morning. They were going out for dinner - trite, predictable, inoffensive; good adjectives not just for the 'dates' John tended to take his women on but also for the women themselves.

"Don't wait up," he had advised on his way out - evidently feeling confident - before leaving Sherlock to yet another night of monotonous solitude.

Prior to living with John, Sherlock had enjoyed being left to his own devices, basking in his isolation rather than detesting it. Silence and seclusion did wonders for the mind, allowing plenty of room to think. But now, as he sat cross-legged in the leather armchair with no case to distract him and not even Mrs Hudson around to rant to, Sherlock found himself cursing whatever godforsaken woman had caught John's eye at the checkout that morning. He sighed.

He did wait up. For hours on end Sherlock lingered, drinking countless mugs of coffee, making small, half-hearted attempts to tidy the flat, staring out of the window and, as much as he tried not to, imagining what John could be doing to impress his female friend enough to make her want to remain with him into the night.

"Repulsive," Sherlock muttered aloud into the darkness, his voice tinged with disgust, anger and unmistakable hints of jealousy.


	9. Snores

**Johnlock fluff, everyone's favourite.**

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_**S**__nores_

People tend to assume that Sherlock Holmes, with his obsessive, compulsive habits and unconventional lifestyle, is some kind of vampiric creature, with a pervasive aversion to sleep and a mind that never tires. But then, that goes to show just how private and covert a person he really is. Of course Sherlock sleeps - but only under the right conditions and, obviously, in the company of the right person.

On that particular summer night, John awoke with a start to the sound of his bedroom window banging closed against its latch. However, not wanting to rouse the six-foot's worth of soundly sleeping detective beside him, he chose to ignore it, instead snuggling closer to Sherlock and moving a hand to rest on his angular hip bone. He closed his eyes, feeling fairly content, but reopened them a second later.

Sherlock asleep is the only thing John can honestly say he likes to see more than Sherlock wide awake. By night, his face is relaxed, untroubled, his almost constant lines of worry and deep thought smoothed out, his expression effervescent and innocent like that of a child. John could imagine a younger, more jovial Sherlock with a face like this all day round. As he moved slightly in his slumber, his dark curls flopped down over his closed eyes.

John smiled and shut his own eyes once more, allowing his thoughts to wander, his mind filling with images of his lover and the sound of his soft snores.


End file.
